The Millennium Series, Book Three: The Mission
by Soleil Mourning
Summary: While the five soldiers of the Inner Alliance were sent ahead in time and charged with protecting the universe from the reincarnation of an evil spirit, two others were sent forward with a mission of their own.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

The rain beat down mercilessly as she made her way through the darkened streets encumbered by the small bundle in the basket that she held. The heavens raged and washed the silent city as its half million inhabitants soundly slept. She pulled the black hood of the cloak she wore down below her eyes, but made her way swiftly as if she were intimately acquainted with the narrow cobble-stone streets of Boston's historic North End district. It was past three in the morning and the streets were empty save for the occasional rat darting across Hanover Street to sample the delicacies unceremoniously tossed out onto the street from the local bakeries. The air was thick with the scent of dirt mixed with ocean, of bread mixed with molasses. But all the city's sensory stimulations went unnoticed; she would not be deterred from her purpose.

Some of the back streets she found herself traversing were so narrow that a car would have trouble opening the doors on both sides. But she made her way steadfastly through and reached her destination. Massive steel garage doors touched down to the sidewalk but they were set back from the red brick of the facade of the fire house almost two feet creating a respite from the elements. She placed the basket down into the corner, out of the rain, and peered inside. The infant was only a few weeks old, but already bearing a striking resemblance to her father with tufts of blond hair poking out in every direction and huge eyes the color of a summer sea. It would not be long before one of the firefighters noticed the errant basket and brought the infant into their safe haven. And when they did, she would be long gone, a vague whisper vanished into thin air. They would never find her.

After setting the infant down, she reached inside her cloak and withdrew the letter she had written only hours before and reread it.

"_Dearest One:_

_ Knowing not whether this will ever reach you, I will be brief. Do not lament your circumstances. Know that you were not abandoned to your fate, but surrendered to it for we can no more fight the will of Destiny than we can stop the course of Time. You have great hardship ahead of you. You will shoulder burdens that no person should have to. But it is your solemn duty to do so. You have a Light inside you that will guide you. Use it wisely and use it well._

_ Do not come searching for your past for it will find you. The story of your origin will be revealed when you are ready to know it._

_ I leave you with one comfort. There is another like you. Find her. Teach her. Together you will embark on a great mission. Do not take it lightly. The weight of a world will rest on your success."_

In lieu of a signature, she had merely drawn a symbol that would remain unintelligible to the child until she was ready. She folded the letter neatly in half three times and tucked it into the basket. She grazed her lips against the soft forehead of the infant, who cooed at the cool touch. She folded the parts of the blanket that were overlapping over the basket back inside and took one last look at the infant inside and whispered:

"Until we meet again!"


	2. Chapter 1: Confession

**PART ONE**

**Chapter One: Confession**

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been twelve days since my last confession."

"What are your sins, my child?"

It was a fair question. But Michelle suddenly found herself tongue-tied and incapable of coherent speech. She wrung her hands nervously and felt her face flush with hot shame.

"I—I—" she tried.

"Yes, my child?" he urged.

"I'm sorry!" Michelle whispered. She burst out of the confessional and the tap-tap-tap of her Mary Janes echoed off the cathedral walls like rocks cascading down the side of chasm. She flew out into the open air and down the steps and did not stop running until she reached her home, a three-bedroom duplex in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Her mother owned the whole building, but let the downstairs part out to a family of Honduran immigrants. Michelle pounded up the stairs and into the apartment she shared with her mother, who, if Michelle had any luck, would be down at the food pantry passing out soggy tuna sandwiches and lectures on divine providence free of charge to the area's homeless population.

"Michelle? Is that you?"

No such luck.

"Yes, Mother, it's me," she said. She slowed to a drag and followed her mother's voice into the kitchen. There was Lucille Bennett, her frizzy brown hair tamed by a banana clip straight out of the 1980s, her ruddy face scrunched up in constant disapproval, peering over enormous eyeglasses attached to her person by a beaded chain at _The Point_, a local paper.

"Here they go again," she said narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips.

"Here who go again?" said Michelle, lingering in the doorway. She was anxious to get up to her room.

"The homo_sex_uals," Lucille replied. Every time she said the word, she over-pronounced the "sex" part. Michelle didn't know whether it was intentional or not. Michelle didn't answer. "Sit down and have a snack," her mother commanded. She set down the paper, exhaled in an exasperated sigh, and stood up and began fixing Michelle a bowl of oatmeal topped with blueberries. "They're out at the pavilion again protesting this or that or some such thing. They won't rest until the American flag is re-done in technicolor!"

Michelle cringed. It was past seven in the morning, but the sun was obscured by clouds rolling in off the ocean in a dusky haze. It was going to be another dreary day and the mid-morning melancholia matched Michelle's mood near perfectly. A general sense of malaise had squatted in her brain with no intention of leaving. She rested her chin in her left hand as her right dug aimless holes in her bowl of oatmeal with her spoon. It was another school day which meant another day of facing the inevitable.

The feelings stirring inside her grew stronger with each passing day. She let her numerous extra-curricular activities occupy her for as much of the day as she could for as long as she was busy, she wasn't consumed by the sinful thoughts. She dared not whisper a word to anyone, though she longed to bare her soul in Confession. So she threw herself into her violin lessons, swim team, math club, debate team, and youth group. It was only a short walk to the local YMCA where the Franklin D. Roosevelt High School swim teams held weekly practices.

"Michelle, get going. You don't want to be late for your swim team practice."

"Yes, Mother."

"And don't forget you have youth group tonight. You need to be back at church by seven."

"I know, Mother."

"And your application to Wellesley is due in two weeks. How are those essays coming?"

"Very well, Mother."

"Good. Now get going."

….

Swim team practice usually began with freestyle laps, a sort of warm-up before the racing began. Once she was in the water, the nagging feelings slipped away. Michelle had always felt completely at home in the water. Her father used to call her his little mermaid. He would drop small toys and souvenirs from his latest business trip into the deep end of their in-ground pool and she would dive in after them emerging only after having collected her prizes. Then he would pull her out and wrap her in a thick towel that smelled of perfumed laundry soap. And her lips were blue and her teeth chattered, but a warm glow burned within her as she reveled in his strong embrace.

But that was a long time ago.

When practice was over, Michelle's heart began to race as it did every afternoon at this time. She took slow, deliberate steps to the locker room and listened intently to the girlish chatter taking place behind her.

"I was thinking about wearing this gold strapless dress that comes down to here, but opens up here, and then there's this gold beading here and along here."

Michelle didn't turn around to watch Cara Linwood gesture on her body which way her dress would cut, but her imagination was more than capable of filling in the blanks. Cara Linwood had moved to the area from somewhere up in North Jersey at the beginning of the school year and was instantly high school royalty. Cara and her friends, all of whom sat in the 'cool' corner of the cafeteria, prattled on about their respective prom dresses and dates and limos while the team filed into the girls' locker room. Michelle held her breath as Cara passed by her and headed for her locker. This next part would require careful timing and a little bit of luck. Michelle studied the combination lock affixed to her locker door and carefully input the code. She swung the door open and gathered her towel and clothes all the while keeping a watchful eye on Cara's movements beside her.

"We need to meet at my house for pictures before we head out," Cara called to her friend Megan, who was currently fishing her clothes out of her locker a few feet down. "My mom just put in this little pond and mini waterfall in the backyard. It'll make a great background."

The showers were an open room with several overhead faucets spaced about six feet from one another and Michelle felt her heart swell as she quickly shuffled into the corner right next to Cara. She and Megan had not stopped talking about the prom as they stripped naked and turned on the water. Most of the girls took quick showers, but not Cara. She liked to wash her hair thoroughly after swim practice to avoid a greenish tint to her golden locks. Michelle slowly lathered her body as she cast a sidelong glance at the lithe figure next to her. She felt a sudden rush of excitement as she watched the snow-white bubbles cascade down Cara's body in waves. Michelle's face flushed a deep crimson as she forced herself to look away. _God give me the strength to suppress my sinful thoughts_, she prayed. But she knew it wouldn't do any good.


	3. Chapter 2: Fraud

**CHAPTER TWO:** Fraud

"Appalling. Pathetic. Shameful!"

Mrs. Bratten, the no-holds-barred English teacher, was somewhere in her sixties, but it was difficult to pinpoint exactly how old she was. She was an FDR High institution, infamous for her ability to reduce even the most hardened student to tears, a skill she had mastered over the decades.

"These papers are insult to me, to you, to this institution of education, and indeed to the entire literate population!" she went on.

They had been assigned an essay the somewhat vague topic of "Who I Want to Be." It was supposed to function as both the mid-term paper and as a model for their college application essays. Michelle had all but finished her college applications — she was applying to most of the Seven Sisters, plus Sarah Lawrence — so this exercise wasn't very important to her, but with Bratten's tirade, Michelle was beginning to wish she had spent more time on the essay. She now wondered if her seven-page exposition was too philosophical, too abstract. Maybe she should have focused more on her career aspirations, such as they were, which is to say nonexistent. She cast a sidelong glance at Cara, who was at that moment whispering something to Megan which was apparently hilarious. Cara had probably written about her desire to become a New York Giants cheerleader, marry the quarterback, and settle down in a mansion in Alpine where she would issue three equally beautiful dimpled blond children.

Sometimes Michelle wished she had more conventional desires.

"There was, however, one exception to what was otherwise a class-wide exercise in mediocrity," said Mrs. Bratten. Her eyes locked on Michelle's and Michelle immediately wished she could disappear. "Miss Bennett!" she barked. Michelle slowly sank into her seat and her face flushed a deep crimson. "Miss Bennett has managed to write an essay expressing more than the mere vapid desires of her peers." Thirty pairs of eyes trained on Michelle attached to expressions that ran the gamut from frustration to envy to hatred. "Miss Bennett, I'd like you to please stand and read your work to the class to give them an idea of what true expression actually looks like." She extended a bony hand in which she clutched Michelle's cursed paper. Michelle swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and stood up on a pair of shaky legs. She accepted the dreaded stapled seven pages feeling as though she were being shut up inside an iron maiden, her skin pierced all over with the prickly sensation of life slowly draining from her body.

She took a small breath and quickly scanned the first words of her essay. She nervously smoothed the pleats of her plaid skirt, cleared her throat and began:

"The writer David Carr once said that we all walk the earth feeling like we are frauds and that the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn't end anytime soon. He struggled with cocaine addiction and while I have no idea what that is like, I feel that he truly captured how I feel in my everyday life. Each day I walk a familiar path, the same path I've walked since birth. Yet it feels unfamiliar somehow. I feel like there is another me lurking somewhere between the folds of this sailor-esque school uniform. This other me is someone bolder, someone powerful, someone unafraid. She looks just like me but is unlike me in every other way. Where I whisper, she shouts. Where I turn and blush, she stares unblinking. Where I cower on my knees and beg the Lord for guidance, she leaps headfirst into action while others turn to her for help, for protection."

As Michelle went on, her voice cracked and strained. She stared intently at the words and felt as though she were boring holes into the paper, the edges of which she crushed with her trembling fingers. She could feel the heat of their eyes on her.

"She loves freely, herself and others. She feels no shame, no self-doubt about who she is, even if she doesn't conform to society's ideals of what she should be."

A thin line of sweat formed at her hairline and she wished she would melt into a puddle. And yet, as she spoke, she sensed that her classmates were rapt. There was no snickering, no hushed whispers. Just silence as she read:

"She is everything I am not, yet would most like to be."

As Michelle read the final words of her soliloquy, her throat was bone dry and her knuckles as white as the paper she clutched. She took a short breath and slowly raised her gaze. Her eyes met Cara's. Michelle expected a raised eyebrow, an eye roll, some sign of derision or at least boredom. But Cara's face had softened and she looked at Michelle with uncharacteristic kindness. Michelle forced herself to look away and down at her Mary Janes.

"That was lovely, Michelle," said Mrs. Bratten softly. Michelle slunk into her desk chair and refused to look up for the rest of class.

….

By the time the dismissal bell had rung, Michelle had almost forgotten her third period humiliation. She was shoving her calculus textbook into her knapsack when a familiar, lilting voice stopped her cold.

"Michelle!" said Cara, sidling up to her. She was missing her usual arsenal of blond cronies.

Michelle glanced up at Cara and quickly turned inward to her locker as she felt her face grow a traitorous shade of red. "Oh, hi, Cara," she whispered. She cleared her throat and pretended to organize the folders that were already neatly stacked in her locker.

"That was some essay you wrote!" Cara gushed. Michelle turned toward Cara and searched her face for any sign of sarcasm. Finding none, she allowed herself a small smile.

"Thank you," said Michelle. "I kind of didn't understand the assignment I think."

"Seems like you were the only one who _did_ understand it," said Cara, again without any trace of malice. When Cara smiled she revealed a set of perfectly white, somewhat rounded teeth, framed by exquisite lips and adorned on either side by dimples. Michelle felt a warmth begin to spread across her lower body as her eyes dropped to Cara's lips.

"I like writing," said Michelle. _God_, she chastised herself. _Could I sound anymore Cro-magnon?_

"And you're great at it," said Cara. She was now leaning against the lockers. She had this way of cocking her head to the side and bobbing it in a circular motion as she spoke that made her resemble a kitten against a pant leg.

"Not really, I just—"

"Listen, Michelle," said Cara, leaning in conspiratorially. "I absolutely have to get into Brown. Like _have_ to. But Bratten is tanking my GPA. Is there any way you could help me with the next essay?" Cara smiled wistfully and Michelle knew at that moment that Cara could have asked Michelle for her extra kidney if she wanted it and she would have gladly submitted to the surgical knife.

"Of course!" said Michelle, a little too eagerly.

"Oh, Michelle, thank you so much!" said Cara. She clutched Michelle's shoulder and grinned. "Do you think we could meet after swim at my house?"

"Sure," said Michelle. "Yeah, definitely."

"Great!" said Cara, brightly. "Thank you so much, Michelle, you're amazing!" Cara gave Michelle's shoulder a squeeze and bounded away. Gradually, Michelle's heart's frantic racing began to slow to a dull throb.

….

Michelle was walking on air as she practically skipped the whole way home. She wasn't paying attention as she stepped into the crosswalk at Ocean Avenue. The screech of angry brakes quickly snapped Michelle out of her reverie.

"Hey, watch it!" came the livid voice of the driver.

Michelle froze and stared doe-eyed at the driver and clutched her calculus textbook to her chest. The driver had short, sandy-blond hair draped casually over glassy aviator sunglasses.

"I'm sorry," Michelle squeaked. The car — which was merely inches from her — was one of those muscle cars the guys in her class drove and painted an obnoxious shade of yellow, but Michelle didn't recognize the driver. He looked older. He slowly lowered the aviators to reveal piercing eyes, the color of the Atlantic just after a summer storm. Michelle felt her face grow crimson as the driver eyed her up and down. His features were sharp, but elegant, almost feminine. Michelle stood frozen in the street. When his eyes locked with hers, she felt something electric course throughout her body.

"I'm—I'm sorry!" she whispered. She broke his gaze and ran across the street to the other side. When she was safely across, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. There he was, still parked in the street, staring after her. Michelle's heart slammed against her chest. Finally, the sharp blare of a car horn shook her back to herself and she broke out into a run. She ducked into the alley behind the deli which functioned as a shortcut to her house on Mayberry Lane. All the while, Michelle's brain swirled with confusion and deep in the middle of it was a tiny grain of a flickering hope. _He gave me that feeling_, she thought. _Maybe I'm not—_. She didn't even dare think the word.


	4. Chapter 3: Spark

**CHAPTER THREE:** Spark

"What do you think of this one?" Cara asked, turning this way and that. The pink gown looked fairly modest from the back, but when she turned, Michelle could see that it plunged low down her front. Her bronzed skin seemed to glitter as the soft lighting enveloped her.

"It's beautiful," said Michelle. They had been ensconced up in Cara's bedroom for nearly an hour, but hadn't once attempted to work on Cara's writing. She was far more interested in modeling prom dress candidates. Michelle wasn't about to complain.

"I'm thinking of going with Steve Garland."

Michelle got the distinct feeling that Cara just loved to hear her own voice and that this conversation would be happening whether or not anybody else was even in the room with her. Still, Michelle felt compelled to keep up her end of the conversation, if only to remind Cara that she was there. "Oh?"

"I mean, I keep hearing that he's going to ask me. He's hot, don't you think?"

Michelle couldn't see what anyone else saw in Steven Garland, besides the fact that he was captain of the wrestling team. She supposed he was handsome in a conventional way, although he didn't do anything for her. "I guess," Michelle said. "If you're into that look."

At this, Cara turned away from the mirror and raised an eyebrow at Michelle. "What look are _you_ into?"

Michelle blushed. She was caught off guard by the newness of having Cara's attention focused on her. "Oh, I don't know," she stammered. "I don't really think about—" She trailed off.

Cara didn't respond, but a sly smile played across her lips. "Hey, Michelle," she said slowly. "Come and unzip me, would you?" She turned back to the mirror and waited. Michelle slid off Cara's plush four-poster and staggered awkwardly to her feet. Cara's eyes reflected back at Michelle's as Michelle reached up with both hands to unfasten the hook from the eyelet. Then Michelle took her time as she slid the zipper all the way down Cara's back, her fingers trembling all the while. When she had reached the end of the zipper, Michelle quickly turned around and returned to Cara's bed. She pretended to flip through the notebooks she had brought while Cara unabashedly let the dress fall to the carpet and stepped out of it. Instead of reaching for the next dress, Cara pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and a tiny pink tank top and joined Michelle on the bed. Cara didn't say anything but examined Michelle closely, thoughtfully.

"Are you ready to get started?" Michelle asked, feeling her face grow hot.

"You're really pretty, you know that?" said Cara, finally, as if it took her several minutes to come to that conclusion.

Michelle looked away. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"But you should let your hair down," said Cara, reaching for the butterfly clip that kept Michelle's sandy brown hair in place at the nape of her neck. When Cara had the clip in her hand, she gently tugged at the locks and pulled them forward so they framed Michelle's face. Cara pursed her lips and crinkled her brow as she studied Michelle's face some more.

"You should cut some bangs," said Cara.

"Really?" said Michelle, surprised.

"Yup." And with that, Cara bounded off the bed and pranced over to her vanity. She pulled open a drawer and withdrew a pair of sharp scissors.

"I can do it for you now if you like," she said expectantly.

Michelle nodded. Cara could have asked her if she wanted her to dye her hair purple and get a tattoo of Bugs Bunny on her forehead and she probably would have agreed. Cara sat back down on the bed and stuck her fingers in Michelle's hair about a half inch past her forehead and pulled the strands down over Michelle's face. Michelle squeezed her eyes shut tight as if it would hurt.

"Much better!" said Cara, obviously satisfied with her work. Michelle stood up and looked herself over in Cara's mirror. She had to admit, she did look a lot better. With bangs, her forehead didn't appear so huge.

Cara wasn't finished. She moved back to her vanity and rummaged around a silver tin and retrieved a soft pink lip gloss. Michelle sat back down on the bed and forced herself to keep her eyes open as Cara deftly painted Michelle's mouth.

"There!" said Cara, replacing the cap on the small tube. "You really don't need much more than that." Michelle smiled. Cara cocked her head to the side and she chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I bet I can guess your type," she said knowingly.

"What do you mean?" Michelle whispered.

"Close your eyes," said Cara in her lilting singsong voice.

Michelle's heart slammed against her chest as she realized what was happening. Cara leaned in close and Michelle squeezed her eyes shut tight. As Cara's lips gently pushed against hers, she felt a tingle low in her body. It quickly spread and soon she was pushing back against Cara's kiss. After about ten electric seconds, Cara pulled back. "Not bad," she said, grinning. "Now, about this essay…"

….

Michelle couldn't believe how much her life had changed in such a relatively short amount of time. She glanced around at the animated faces around her and wondered how it all happened. It was incredible to her that only a week ago, she was sitting at a cafeteria table mindlessly chewing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as she read a book with a handful of other honors students and now she found herself surrounded by the most popular girls in school. As usual, Cara was relishing her place as the center of attention, talking nonstop as her plate of salad lay untouched before her. Megan and Lindsay were hanging on her every word. The four of them huddled together at one end of the table while Steve Garland and his merry band of equally vacuous jocks jostled one another at the other end of the table. At that moment, Tom Hadley, a burly neanderthal in Michelle's sixth period government class — a year older than the rest of them, having been held back in the fourth grade — was pouring a clear liquid from a flask into his own fountain soda cup to the approving hoots and hollers of the other guys around him.

Michelle mostly kept quiet, but interjected the occasional question or supportive comment. Only very rarely did the subject of conversation turn to her and Michelle was always very grateful when Cara once again steered all attention back to herself.

"Hey, Cara," said Steven, interrupting a conversation about Cara's designer shoe collection.

"Hi, Steve," she sang in response. She gave Michelle a knowing look before turning her attention toward Steve. Michelle's irritation at Steve's presence was somewhat mollified by the look and she refocused her own attention toward the plate of egg salad that lay uneaten on her plate. As she began eating, she was jostled by Tom Hadley's bulk as he slid down the bench and wound up right next to Michelle.

"Hi," said Tom, through a mouthful of pizza. Michelle had to suppress a gag reflex.

"Hello, Tom," she whispered, without looking at him.

"Excited about prom?" A bit of tomato sauce had collected at the corners of his mouth.

Michelle didn't believe for a minute Tom cared what she thought — about prom or any other subject. "I haven't given it much thought," she said. It wasn't a lie. It had never occurred to Michelle that she might go to the prom. Somehow the idea of fancying herself up in a dress she couldn't afford to impress a boy she wasn't interested in to dance and party with classmates she preferred to avoid did not appeal to her.

"We're all getting a limo," said Tom. It was more than he had ever spoken to her in all the years they had known each other — going back to third grade — and Michelle was uncomfortable.

"Sounds nice," she said.

"You could go with me if you want," he said.

Michelle wanted to die. "Oh, I—" she stammered. "I don't know if I can go."

"Michelle!" Cara interrupted.

Michelle looked over gratefully. Cara and the others had stood up and were waiting for her, leaving the trays holding their barely-touched lunches on the table. Michelle stood up abruptly, clutching the sides of her tray.

"Just leave it," said Cara. "Someone else will take care of it."

Michelle hesitated. Then she put the tray back down and followed Cara as she led the way to the girls' bathroom.

Once they were out of the cafeteria, Cara turned to Michelle and said, "Tom Hadley likes you."

Michelle made a face. Megan and Lindsay laughed. They all clamored over the sinks and immediately all hands went to purses for breath mints and lipstick. As Michelle carefully applied the pink gloss that Cara had given her, she muttered, "He's gross."

"Yeah," agreed Lindsay, "just ask April Hargrove."

"What do you mean?" asked Michelle.

"I'm surprised you didn't hear," said Cara. "Apparently April went with Tom to junior formal last year and then afterward, Tom did her in the back of his Sebring."

"It was all over school the next day," Megan added.

"April had to change schools, couldn't handle it," said Cara. "He told everyone every little detail. And I mean _every_ detail."

Michelle shuddered. "What a jerk."

"Yeah," said Cara. "Anyway, so I'm pretty sure I'm going with the purple chiffon for prom…"

Michelle's mind began to wander as Cara prattled on. She thought of April Hargrove. Michelle hadn't noticed that April was no longer in their class and it saddened her a little. The class wasn't so large that a face should fade so quickly from her memory. She didn't know April well, but she had seemed nice enough. Michelle remembered one time in the fifth grade when she got sick in gym class. Michelle sat in the nurses office sipping ginger ale and April was in there too. The flu was going around and had already spread through half the class. April lay on a cot with a cold compress over her forehead as she waited for her mother to come pick her up. April's hair was divided into two neat pigtails and each was secured with a bright yellow ribbon which contrasted with the dull navy of their school uniforms. Michelle couldn't fathom why that was the detail she remembered about April. They weren't friends, but now having learned of her humiliation and self-expulsion from school, Michelle suddenly wished she knew something else about her.


	5. Chapter 4: Frozen

**CHAPTER FOUR: **Frozen

What Michelle loved most about living so close to the sea was that the air always smelled of salt. She often liked to sit on the cushioned bench just under her bedroom window and breathe the sea air that sailed in. Michelle felt warm and happy as she transposed the events of the previous night in her diary in elegant script. She felt her face flush from just the memory. She wanted to record every detail and read it over and over again. The way she could smell Cara's orange-scented shampoo as she leaned in, the taste of her cherry-flavored lip gloss, the warmth of her breath — Michelle was electrified. Although they never spoke of it outside Cara's bedroom, they had fallen into a sort of routine. Whenever neither of them had other obligations, Michelle would go over to Cara's house and listen to her prattle on about herself for a little while, then they would work on short essay assignments and Michelle would critique Cara's writing — which was improving — and then when Cara got bored, she would send Michelle a signal — a light brush of her fingertips along Michelle's knee or tucking a wisp of her hair behind Michelle's ear — and a jolt would charge up Michelle's spine. When they kissed, Michelle felt her whole world stop. She wasn't on Earth anymore, but lifted into the stratosphere, weightless and flying.

But in the harsh halogen light of day, Michelle was just one of many in Cara's entourage. Cara never spoke of their evening interludes and somehow Michelle knew she wasn't supposed to mention it. It was like a dream. She was afraid that just acknowledging it would be enough to make it disappear.

"Michelle!" her mother barked upstairs, shattering Michelle's reverie. She frowned at the paper of her diary where her startled hand made a jagged mark. She folded up the small book and stuck it under her mattress before appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Yes, Mother?" she asked dutifully.

"Get dressed, we're going."

"Going where?"

"Down to Christina's Bridal over on Primrose Lane."

"What for?"

"Mary Gallagher just called and she's organizing a protest. We need to go show our support."

"A protest?"

"Yes. Apparently Christina is selling wedding gowns to homo_sex_ual women so that they can get married!"

Michelle's stomach clenched. "We're protesting?"

"Yes! Now put on a jacket and let's get over there."

Michelle swallowed and turned slowly back into her room. _I should say something_, she thought. _This is wrong._

But she couldn't work up the nerve.

About an hour later, Michelle found herself standing among a group of four women outside Christina's Bridal holding a sign that read "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve." She was mortified.

"Mother, how long do I have to stay?" she whispered, praying to God no one she knew would happen by.

"The store closes in ten minutes," Mrs. Bennett replied. "Then you can go."

Just then, a young pretty brunette stepped out of the store looking harried but patient. Michelle sat down on the curb as her mother and the other three women approached her and started complaining. Michelle gathered from the bits of the dialogue that made it to her ears that they were yelling at Christina, the owner of the bridal boutique, and Christina was trying to explain herself.

"…Abomination…eyes of God…"

"…Business decision…no judgment…"

Michelle let the sign she held fall ungracefully across her lap and pulled at the grass patch while she waited for her mother to finish preaching at the poor shop owner. As she let the blades of grass fall between her fingertips into a small pile she was making on the sidewalk, she suddenly got the intense feeling she was being watched. The hairs on her arms stood up and Michelle snapped her head to attention. Across the street there was a tall, blond man. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, but she was certain he was staring directly at her. He was leaning casually against a bright yellow sports car. Michelle gasped as she recognized him as the driver of the vehicle that almost struck her the other day. Her skin grew warm. Her cheeks turned pink. He brought his hand to his sunglasses and removed them slowly, looking at her intensely. His eyes narrowed as he looked from Michelle to the women and their signs, all displaying some similar inane catchphrase denouncing the idea of gay marriage. Michelle was overwrought with shame. He stood up straight and moved as if he were about to cross the street. Michelle straightened up.

"Michelle!"

Michelle cringed and turned to face her mother. "Yes?"

"Come now, we're going."

"Already?" she asked and immediately regretted it. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to think she actually enjoyed this activity.

"Yes, they're closing up. We can come back another time until they change their policy."

Michelle scrambled to her feet and brushed off her skirt. She looked across the street again and gasped. His car had disappeared, so swiftly and silently as to escape her notice. He was gone.

...

"Michelle!" Cara squealed as she came bounding down the hallway.

"Hey, Cara," Michelle said, grinning. Michelle was waiting at Cara's locker. Mrs. Bratten had called them up one by one in alphabetical order to receive their most recently graded essays before dismissing them. Michelle had received her usual A and waited for Cara to hear the news. From the look on Cara's face, it was good.

"An A minus!" said Cara, waving a stapled packet of pages back and forth. "I got an A minus on my term paper, can you believe it?"

"Of course I can," said Michelle. "You've been working so hard."

Cara threw her arms around Michelle and hugged her tight. Michelle was surprised, but gladly hugged her back. Cara pulled away and threw open her locker.

"I guess I don't need your help anymore. But thanks so much for everything, I really owe you!"

Michelle was crestfallen. "But—but your other papers—"

"Well, I mean, I think I can do it now on my own. That was the whole point, wasn't it?"

"Well, I—"

Cara's expression darkened. "Look, you can still hang out with us if you want to. I'm just saying you don't need to come over anymore." She looked Michelle directly in the eye and added, "We're done with that now. Know what I mean?"

And Michelle got the message clearly. She knew Cara wasn't talking about writing help. And she knew she shouldn't argue. But she couldn't stop herself.

"Cara, please," she whispered urgently. "I don't want to be done with that."

"Come _on_, Michelle," said Cara, rolling her eyes. "It wasn't for real. It was just a game. Like practice."

Michelle felt her skin grow hot and her eyes begin to well with tears. "It wasn't a game to me," she whispered.

Cara looked around as if to make sure no one was overhearing their conversation. "Well, honestly, Michelle!" she hissed. "What did you think was going to happen? Did you think we were going to go to prom together? Be serious!"

Michelle didn't answer.

Cara sighed. "Look, I'm going to the prom with Steven Garland. Just go with Tom Hadley, he likes you."

Michelle gasped. "But what about—you said—what about April Hargrove?"

Cara rolled her eyes. "Well maybe that kind of reputation would do you some good, Michelle."

"What does that mean?"

Cara sighed again. "People are talking, Michelle," said Cara. She turned toward Michelle and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Talking about what? About me?"

"Well, yeah," said Cara. She reached a hand absent-mindedly into her purse and withdrew a small compact. She turned and faced the small mirror affixed to the inside of her locker and began to apply a soft shade of pink eyeshadow as she spoke. "They're saying, you know. That you're into _girls_. Like that."

Michelle's face burned crimson and her stomach began to churn. "I—I—It's not—I—" she stammered. Michelle suddenly felt as if the hallway were erupting in clandestine whispers. Whispers about her. Michelle backed away slowly. She looked over her shoulder. It seemed as if everyone were looking at her. Her eyes stung. She spun on her heels and flew down the hallway and out the front door of the school. No one stopped her even though the fourth period bell was going to ring any second. She ran from the school. Without thinking, she found herself running east as if compelled by some invisible force pulling her toward the ocean. The seasons were changing. It was growing colder. She hadn't bothered to grab her jacket before escaping. She darted across the boardwalk and only slowed when her feet started to sink into the sand. She kicked off her Mary Janes and wriggled out of her socks. The sand was cold but felt wonderful on her feet. She walked right up to the ocean's edge and didn't flinch at the icy sting of the waves as they lapped around her ankles. She heard nothing but the crash of the waves against the jetties and stared out at the endless blue wishing she could go out further. She wanted to cry. She always felt better after a good cry. But she was frozen.


	6. Chapter 5: Revelations

**CHAPTER FIVE:** Revelations

As the weeks went by, it became clear to Michelle that her brief foray into the realm of the popular was only a blip on the otherwise stagnant line of her life. The weather grew colder, but Michelle barely noticed. Although her grades kept her at the top of her class, her teachers started to get concerned over her growing apathy. She lost interest in her activities and, feigning illness, began to skip swim practices. The season was practically over anyway so Michelle didn't feel that guilty about it, despite the long looks from her swim coach.

"Eat your breakfast!" her mother barked at her. Michelle only poked at her oatmeal as she sat slumped in her chair in the kitchen.

"Not hungry," she mumbled.

"Michelle," her mother warned. "This is unacceptable. You're getting very skinny."

Michelle shrugged.

Her mother pursed her lips. "Is this about some boy?"

Michelle snorted. "God, no," she snapped.

Her mother gasped. "We do not take the Lord's name in vain in this household!"

"Sorry," Michelle muttered. She gathered her backpack and headed for the door without a backward glance.

….

In the cafeteria at lunchtime, Michelle sat at the corner table with a couple of other honors students. No one spoke. Everyone was immersed in their own independent projects. Michelle slowly turned the pages of a Tolstoy classic, but only about every seventh word made its way to her brain.

"Michelle!"

She looked up, startled. Tom Hadley was standing at the end of the table, eyeing her. Michelle turned bright red.

"Yes?" she asked in a small voice.

At first Tom didn't answer. He gave the others at her table a dirty look and they quickly gathered up their trays and backpacks and abandoned Michelle.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said, sitting down. Michelle shrugged. Tom went on: "So I noticed that you and Cara don't seem to be friends anymore." He paused. Michelle waited. Finally:

"That's not a question."

"Okay, well, I was thinking we could go out on Friday. Steve and Cara are going to the old restored drive-in on Riverside. If we doubled, maybe you and Cara could make up or whatever."

Michelle stared at him. She had to give him some credit. Clearly, he realized that Michelle wasn't interested in dating him so he was trying a new tack. It was almost effective.

"No thanks," said Michelle. She turned back to her book.

Tom's mouth settled into a hard line. "Fine, Michelle. Enjoy your lunch." With that, he stood up and left her alone with her barely-touched macaroni salad.

….

When Michelle got home that day, she was a little surprised to see the red flag pointed upward on their mailbox. Her mother was usually prompt in collecting the mail. Michelle pulled down the door and reached in. She withdrew a stack of mail and stood there awhile thumbing through it. An offer for a Discover card. An urgent plea from some international children's organization. A water bill. Michelle paused on an envelope addressed to her. The blue emblem of Wellesley College appeared in the top left corner. Michelle felt her heart rise in her throat. She pushed the other mail back into the box and tore into the envelope. She scanned the letter and stopped reading after the first word:

_Congratulations!_

For the first time in weeks, Michelle grinned. Forgetting the other mail, and her backpack which she had carelessly dropped on the curb, she broke out into a run toward the house. The living room was empty. She darted down the short hallway and into the kitchen expecting to find her mother there, but it was empty. Michelle felt a stab of disappointment. Her mother would be elated. Michelle sat down at the kitchen table and read every line of the letter. Wellesley! Wellesley was everything she had dreamed of in a college. It was small, private, and best of all — three states away in Massachusetts!

Michelle laid the letter flat on the table and tried to push out the creases. Let her mother see that when she walked in! Michelle headed back to the living room and got halfway up the stairs before she remembered her backpack. She turned around and flew out the door again. When she got to the top of the porch steps, she suddenly halted. Crouched over her backpack at the curb was a young man. It was the same tall, sandy-haired, Aviator-wearing man she had seen across the street from the bridal shop. Sure enough, parked a few car-lengths away was the yellow sports car. Michelle froze.

"This yours?" he called, good-naturedly.

Michelle nodded.

He straightened up and strode toward her, backpack in hand, in long, graceful, confident strides. When he reached the porch steps he stopped and held the backpack out to her. She took two timid steps down the stairs and accepted the backpack.

"Thank you," she whispered. She could see herself in the reflection of his glasses. She wished he would take them off.

"Sure," he said. "I was driving by and saw it. Didn't want it to get stolen." His cheeks turned slightly pink and he looked almost guilty.

"Stolen?" she said. "In Point Pleasant?" It was almost laughable. It was one of the safest towns in the state, especially during the winter months when all the tourists left the shore town en masse.

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "Where I come from people generally don't leave their stuff out. Hard habit to break I guess." He smiled a half-smile.

Michelle blushed and felt her blood rush to the surface of her skin. She was warm. She didn't say anything.

"Well, see you around." He nodded at her and turned to leave. Michelle returned to the top of the stairs and reached for the door. She paused and turned around. He was already seated in his car. He started the ignition and a loud, low rumble shook the ground. He gave her a little wave and peeled off down the street. Way too fast, in Michelle's opinion. She pushed her way back into the house and flew up the stairs. She dropped her backpack on the floor of her bedroom and flopped down backward on her bed. She was grinning ear to ear as she reached down between the mattress and box spring and felt around for her diary. Her smile slowly faded as her fingers didn't feel the familiar leather binding. She stood up and reached both hands under the mattress. Nothing. She frowned and lifted the mattress up above her head. She gasped. It wasn't there. She dropped her mattress and turned around. Her eyes scanned the room: not on her window seat, not on her dresser, not on her desk.

Slowly the realization began to sink in. "No, no, no," she whispered as she ran to her dresser and began to pull articles of clothing out and toss them to the floor. As she did so, she knew it was futile. She only ever kept her diary in one spot because if her mother ever found it—. She didn't even want to think of it. Michelle turned to her bookcase and began pulling titles out frantically, tossing the books to the floor. No sign of it. Michelle ran to her closet and started tossing things aside. She even looked inside all her shoes, the ridiculousness of it never registering.

Michelle heard the front door open and the familiar jangle of her mother dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl that sat on the small table beside the door. She froze. Michelle could hear her mother's footsteps as she came into the house and pulled the kitchen chair out. Michelle figured her mother was reading the admissions letter she had left out. Would she be pleased?

Maybe I just lost my diary, Michelle thought. Maybe I was absent minded and left it somewhere else. Or maybe she did find it. That doesn't mean she read it! She tried to reassure herself, but knew it was hopeless. Michelle dragged herself to the top of the stairs and took a deep breathe before finding the courage to descend. She tiptoed down the stairs and as she made her way into the kitchen, she instantly regretted coming down at all. Her mother sat there, rigid as stone. There was the letter, but right next to it, with her mother's slender hand grazing the leather, was her diary.

"We need to talk," said Mrs. Bennett grimly.

Michelle didn't answer, but slid slowly into the chair across from her mother. She clasped her hands together in her lap and stared at them.

"As you can imagine, I was quite shocked to find this," she continued. Michelle remained silent and racked her brain for an appropriate reaction. For a moment she considered righteous indignation. She imagined herself making an impassioned outcry about invasion of privacy. Then she imagined trying to convince her mother that it wasn't a diary at all, but a work of fiction! Yes, Michelle was going to be a writer! It was plausible. She had always gotten good grades in English. Then she considered bursting into tears and begging for forgiveness. Yes, this last was the mostly likely to spare her too much punishment.

"I just came from Father MacKinnon," Mrs. Bennett continued. "We discussed you all afternoon."

Michelle burned. She didn't know what she was feeling. Shame. Regret. And something else she wasn't quite sure she was ready to deal with. Something akin to relief.

"Mother, I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"Michelle, you are confused. You're just very confused."

Michelle nodded slowly, but didn't trust herself to speak.

"It's common for teenagers. Your bodies are changing and you're feeling all these new things and you don't know how to deal with them."

Michelle nodded again.

"Unfortunately, I don't think _this_—" she gestured to the letter on the table, "is going to help matters."

"What do you mean?" Michelle asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Bennett, as if she were explaining something to a small child. "Wellesley is an all-girls' school!"

Suddenly, the gravity of her mother's words were starting to hit Michelle. "But," she whispered, "they all are. All the schools I applied to."

"Yes, well," said her mother, removing her glasses and wiping them on her sweater. "Perhaps that wasn't the best idea."

"But Wellesley, Bryn Mawr, these are great schools. We picked them out together!"

"Michelle, I think it would be best if you spent next year at home. We can go to Father MacKinnon every day. We can sort out your feelings. Get you right again. Maybe in a year we'll reapply to some co-educational universities."

Michelle suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She was seeing her whole future fall apart before her eyes. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again realizing it was pointless. She stared back down at her lap and nodded slowly. "I understand," she said.

Mrs. Bennett slid the diary across the table. Michelle accepted it. Slowly, she got to her feet and headed back upstairs. She placed the diary on her bed and stared at it angrily.

"Traitor," she muttered. She knew she was being irrational, but she couldn't help herself.

….

She knew she wasn't dreaming because of the smell. You couldn't smell things in your dreams. And the halls definitely had a pungent aroma of teenage sweat mixed with too much Drakkar Noir and hair gel. But she had seen this scene before. She wasn't imagining it this time. They were looking at her. They were whispering about her. Conversations ceased abruptly as she passed. Her eyes darted left and right. As she walked down the hall, she noticed Cara and her friends with their heads close together in a circle. When she got close, Cara's head snapped up and looked Michelle directly in the eye. She didn't say a word, but her look pierced Michelle's eyes. And Michelle knew. When she reached her locker, her fears were confirmed. Scrawled in red marker over her locker, in all capital letters was the one-word accusation: "LESBIAN."

Michelle felt the world disappear all around her. Her head felt dizzy and light. Her vision went black and little white stars twinkled at the edges of her vision.

When she awoke, she was lying flat on her back on an uncomfortable cot in the nurse's office.

"Feeling better, dear?" asked the kindly nurse, Mrs. Jackson.

"What happened?" Michelle asked.

"You fainted, dear. Did you eat anything today?"

"I can't remember," Michelle muttered.

"Listen, dear," said Mrs. Jackson. "You need to eat. Girls your age shouldn't diet."

_Great_, thought Michelle. _She thinks I have an eating disorder. Add that one to the list!_

"I'm not dieting," said Michelle. "Things are just tough right now."

"Do you want to talk about it, dear?"

Michelle thought for a moment. "No," she said. She sat up and reached for the carton of apple juice in Mrs. Jackson's outstretched hand. She downed the juice in one gulp, gathered her things, and sailed out the door. School had ended a few hours earlier and the halls were empty. Once outside, she breathed in the clear, cold, slightly salted air greedily. It felt good against her flushed skin. She almost felt better until she realized she had about a half year left of school before graduation, an event which had once marked the beginning of her freedom, but now signaled her doom. She dragged her feet through the parking lot and didn't notice the small gang of guys hanging out in a little clearing in the trees that enveloped the senior parking lot.

"Well, well!"

Michelle looked up suddenly. "Tom!" she gasped.

Tom, Steve, and two other guys she recognized but didn't know were passing a couple of flasks back and forth. She started to inch backward, but Steve cut off her path. "Where you rushing off to?" he asked. His breath smelled of liquor and he was slightly unsteady on his feet.

"Well now it's all so clear!" said Tom, lumbering toward her. He was grinning ear to ear. "I'm just really not your type, am I, Michelle?"

The guys laughed and Michelle's heart began to pound furiously in her chest. A sick feeling began to wash over her.

"You just need a real man to show you what you're missing," said Steve. Before Michelle realized what was happening, Steve reached under her skirt and gave her behind a little pat. Michelle yelped and tried to run, but Tom had stepped in front of her.

"Where you going?" he asked, laughing. "It'll be fun, trust me."

Michelle ducked under his outstretched arms and broke out into a run.

"Hey!" Tom screamed. She looked over her shoulder and saw they had given chase. She dropped her backpack somewhere on the sidewalk and ran and ran.

Michelle headed for the shortcut behind the deli and darted down the alley. Her heart thudded in her chest as her Mary Janes pounded against the pavement. She could still hear them. She looked over her shoulder. They were getting closer. She could practically hear the lecherous thoughts swirling around their heads. Suddenly, a sharp pain filled her body and she immediately collapsed to the ground. She struggled for a moment to try to piece together what had happened. She looked up and saw that she had collided with a chain-link fence. There, hanging in the middle, was a sign reading No Trespassing. Michelle was filled with dread. They must have only just closed off the area for construction. She put her palms down onto the pavement in an attempt to hoist herself up, but her head was swimming. She fell to the ground again.

"Don't try to run, baby," sneered Tom. Michelle looked up and saw three blurry copies of each of them advancing on her. She felt herself being pulled to her feet and dragged to the wall. Steven and one of the others had each of her arms pinned to wall and she struggled uselessly against their grip. Hot tears stung at her eyes as Tom came hulking toward her. "Don't fight me, honey," he drawled, as he removed his belt and began to unzip his jeans. "Trust me, you'll love it." The guys laughed and held her back as Tom pressed his body against hers. She fought and started to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth tightly. In doing so, he slammed her head against the brick. Her head felt as though it were quickly filling with water. She squeezed her eyes shut tight prayed it wouldn't last long.

Suddenly the darkened alley was awash in a white, hot light. Michelle felt the ground quaking beneath her. She heard agonizing screams. She was freed and she slipped to the ground and fell slowly into unconsciousness. As a black blur closed in around her, she thought she heard a faintly familiar voice.

**END OF PART ONE**


	7. Chapter 6: Sojourn

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER SIX:** Sojourn

"_You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time. You ain't nothin' but hound dog, cryin' all the time. Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend a mine…_"

Alex Reynolds found herself singing along to the radio despite her detestation for Elvis as she stared up into the innards of a canary yellow 1967 Mustang. She lovingly drained the oil from the car, her baby, and smiled as she thought of driving her along the eastern board with the dreary Atlantic to her left as she abandoned everything she knew for the relatively unknown.

"You almost done with that oil change, girl?" said Carl, the shop manager. He never called her anything but "girl," as if, with her short hair and tall and muscular physique, he needed a daily reminder that she was one. Alex rolled her body out from under the car and grinned. Her face was smeared with blackened oil and her short, blond hair, which she normally kept in a clean pixie cut, was sticking out in every direction.

"All done," she said. She stood up and wiped her dirty hands on her even dirtier overalls.

"Good, I need you to test the brakes on that Chevy over there."

"Sure thing, Boss," said Alex, rolling her eyes. Carl could be helpless sometimes.

"What time do you plan on bouncing out of here?"

"Soon," she replied. "I have plans tonight."

"Hot date?"

Alex snorted. "Nah. Dinner with friends," she lied.

"Well, don't leave without taking care of that Chevy."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Boss."

"If you don't like the job, you know what you can do with it," he said.

"Yeah, I know," Alex muttered. _All in good time._

"I really don't get why a _girl_ with as much money as you have in the bank bothers with a blue collar job like this."

"I know you don't," Alex replied. She could try to explain to him, but what would be the point? She loved cars. She loved working. She had worked her whole life. She didn't know anything else.

After she had seen to the Chevy and put one more, probably superfluous, coat of wax on her Mustang, unzipped herself from her coveralls, tossed her gloves into her cubby and slid effortlessly into her car. She reached over into the glove compartment and withdrew a pair of Aviators she had uncovered from a Faneuil Hall flea market the year before. She checked herself out in the rearview mirror and smirked. Pretty sharp, if she did say so herself.

"See you later," she said, nodding to Carl as she pealed out of the garage. He grunted in response.

South Boston was an unforgiving neighborhood to grow up in. That was true for anyone, but it was especially true for Alex. As the dilapidated row houses rushed by in a blur, she felt a pang of sadness. She had never lived anywhere but here. She had never even left Massachusetts. She had almost never left the city limits of Boston, but there was that brief stint in the group home in Dedham. But soon she would be leaving it all behind for the Great Unknown. _All right_, she admitted to herself. _That's a little dramatic. New Jersey isn't exactly Indonesia. I'll be able to find my way around._

She pulled into her driveway and into the garage. It was a one-car garage detached from the house. She hopped over the side of the car and yanked down the garage door. It clattered to the pavement with a crash and Alex bounded into the house. Maps of the northeast United States were strewn all over the kitchen table with a route traced in yellow highlighter snaking down the east coast. A small town along the Jersey shore was circled several times around in red: Point Pleasant. She would be leaving in the morning.

Alex opened the refrigerator door and sighed. Nothing but an old, probably toxic by now, jar of peanut butter and a few cases of beer. She grabbed a Corona and popped the top as she headed for the living room. She fell ungracefully into the couch and started up her laptop, a top-of-the-line Macbook that seemed somewhat out of place in her otherwise modest home in Southie. She logged into her bank account and her jaw tensed. Five hundred thousand dollars more than she had yesterday bringing the grand total to just under one and a half million. It was like clockwork. Every year on this date she was half a million dollars richer. She had been spending steadily since then, but lived well below her means. Her income from the mechanic shop paid her basic bills, but wasn't really enough to build much of a nest egg with. That was fine with her. Extravagance wasn't really her way. She made only one exception to this general rule — her Mustang.

The arrival of this new influx of cash signaled her twenty-first birthday. She threw her head back and drank from the Corona heartily until it was half empty.

"Happy birthday to me," she said softly, setting the bottle down a little too hard on the coffee table. Some beer spurted out and speckled the shabby wooden table. She found it somewhat ironic that on this day, marking her legal entrance into the world of drinking, she'd already had half a fridge full of beer. They were lax about this kind of thing in Southie. And even if they weren't, Alex had looked well beyond her years for quite some time now. Tiny lines traced their way around her eyes, eyes which were underscored by permanent purplish splotches. These were the tell-tale marks of a childhood spent in a near constant state of panic.

On Alex's eighteenth birthday, Alice Baker, her social worker, had called her into the office. It was a shabby, run-down little room in a run-down building in Chinatown just outside South Station. Her latest professional foster mother was only too happy to drop her off. At eighteen, Alex had already reached her full height and towered over everyone in the Dorchester house. And although her body had grown up, it had failed to grow out. What curves she did have were constantly obscured by the extra large t-shirts she wore, hand-me-downs from foster brothers past. Ms. Baker frowned at the lanky teenager with greasy hair and dirt-tracked cheeks in front of her.

"A package came for you today," she said. Alex was slumped in her chair and barely raised an eyebrow.

"Is that why you called me down here?"

Ms. Baker pursed her lips. "No. I called you down here because you've aged out of the system. It's time for you to leave foster care." Ms. Baker glanced down at the floor where Alex had haphazardly tossed her backpack. "I suspect you know that since you're all packed."

"Yeah."

"Do you have any plans for yourself?"

"Go to Hollywood."

"Alexandra, be serious."

"Go to Harvard."

Ms. Baker sighed and reached down into her desk drawer. She withdrew a letter-sized brown package. "This is for you." She slid the package across her desk and Alex picked it up.

"Is that all?" Alex asked, barely looking.

Ms. Baker sighed again. "Yes, that's all."

Without a word, Alex shoved the package into her backpack, slung the pack over her shoulder and headed for the door.

"Alexandra!" Ms. Baker called. Alex looked back, her hands on the door. "I'm very sorry," said Ms. Baker, shaking her head. "I'm sorry we couldn't find you a permanent home."

Alex didn't reply. She let the door close with a thud behind her as she sailed out the door. _A permanent home_, she thought, rolling her eyes. Like anyone would have her. She was a freak and she knew it. She stepped out into the cold Boston air and zipped her hoodie up to her neck. This was it. She was finally free. But her freedom felt confining. She hadn't given much serious thought to what she would do when she was finally out of the system. And now that it had happened, she felt lost. She started walking. She had no particular aim other than to put as much space between her and that office as she possibly could. She walked and walked and walked. Finally, night had fallen. Her fingers were white from cold. She ducked into a Starbucks coffee shop and ordered a cup of hot water with lemon. She cursed under her breath when the bambi-eyed barista charged her a whole dollar for the beverage. Alex took her cup and found an empty table. She wrapped her hands around the warm cardboard cup and inhaled the steam, allowing it to warm her face. As she sat, she remembered the envelope Ms. Baker had given her. She reached into her bag and pulled it out. It was addressed to her, but the return address — Halcyon Trust — was unfamiliar to her. She tore open the envelope and turned it upside down. A letter and a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper slid out onto the table. She opened the parcel first. It was a key. She looked at it curiously and then turned to the letter and began to read:

_Dear Alexandra,_

_My fondest wishes to you on your eighteenth birthday! Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Gregory Levinson and I serve as vice president with Halcyon Trust. I am pleased to inform you that you are the named beneficiary of a sizable trust and that I have been designated as trustee for said trust. The trust has been set up at the Bank of America and your credentials to access the trust income are attached to this letter. In addition, you will find a key to a safe deposit box, also located at the Bank of America, enclosed in this package as well._

_One more thing of note that I must tell you is that the settlor of the trust — that is, your benefactor — has chosen to remain anonymous. Your benefactor is most insistent on this matter so please understand that I cannot give you any details as to his or her identity._

_It is my pleasure to serve as your trustee and should you ever have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me any time._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Gregory Levinson_

_Vice President_

_Halcyon Trust, LLC_

Alex read the letter again, but was as perplexed as ever. On the next sheet was an address for the Bank of America branch located at Government Center as well as some log-in information for the bank's website. At the time, she was barely computer literate and, having nothing better to do, decided to pop into the bank branch personally and see what was up. The friendly teller looked over her letter and log-in codes and smiled broadly at her. Alex distrusted her instantly. She continued to scowl even as she was led into an elevator and descended several floors below ground, past several corridors of stacked black drawers.

"Ah, here we are," said the much-too-cheerful bank teller. She pointed a slender, well-manicured finger at a box marked "7." "Here you are!" she said brightly handing Alex back her key. "I'll give you some privacy."

Alex stared at her back until she had disappeared down the hallway. When she was alone, Alex pushed the key inside the box and turned. The door swung open and revealed a black box on the inside, about the size of a shoe box. She reached in and pulled it out and lay it on the table beside her. She stood there staring at the box for what felt like ages. A feeling of dread began to pull at her. She didn't like unknowns. Curiosity inevitably won out though and she lifted the lid from the box and peered inside. A small satchel bound at the top with string and a letter. The letter was sealed, but it wasn't addressed. She went for the satchel first. She pulled at the string and turned the satchel over. Out slid a small pen-sized object encased in gold. On the top was a golden star that bore a strange symbol she had never seen before. She turned it over looking for the inkwell and frowned when she saw none. It was pretty, she had to admit, but if it wasn't a pen, what was it? Alex had little patience for knick knacks with no useful purpose. She turned to the letter and tore it open.

Her blood ran cold as she read:

_Dearest One,_

_The time has come for you to learn the truth of your destiny. I know your life on this planet has been marred by tragedy and loss, but I hope you will see in it some higher purpose. You are a fighter. You have been one all your life. You have been one in all your lives before this one. _

_But I am afraid your true battle has not yet begun. There are forces which have penetrated our Universe and are working toward its demise. If those dark forces unleash the Destroyer, all will be lost. You must fight. You must win._

_I will be in touch from time to time to guide you on your path. For now I leave you with this gift. This talisman is the external manifestation of the Light which burns inside you. You will know when you are called upon to use it. _

_Be safe._

And there at the bottom, scrawled in purple ink was a symbol that was forever burned into her memory. Trembling, Alex reached her hand through the neck of her shirt and withdrew a circular compact. She had gotten the compact from the only person she had ever loved and had immediately strung a metal chain through it so as to wear it as a necklace. She didn't take her eyes off the symbol at the bottom of the letter and her shaking fingers struggled to open the compact. When she did, she carefully removed a tattered piece of paper that was as old as she was. She unfolded the paper — the only link to her past she had — and lay it side by side with the letter from the deposit box. Identical symbols. Identical handwriting.

Alex remembered that day with remarkable clarity. It was only three years ago, but so much had happened in the intervening time that it felt like it had happened to another person in another lifetime. She rested her palm on her chest where the compact bulged beneath her shirt and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she reached for the Corona and downed the rest of it in one swift gulp. The glass bottle was still cold. She pressed it against her neck and sighed as the cool condensation tempered the heat of her skin. She didn't move for a long time and eventually the sun began to sink low in the horizon casting long shadows in her living room. She didn't bother to turn on any lights. Sleep didn't come for her. It rarely did. She sat staring in the darkness for what seemed like hours. She was saying goodbye.


	8. Chapter 7: Lightning

**CHAPTER SEVEN: **Lightning

It hadn't taken Alex very long to pack up her belongings and move out of her apartment. Her entire life could be fit neatly into just a couple duffel bags that she tucked into the trunk of her car between coolers of sodas and snacks and a small locked box. It was only about a five hour drive to New Jersey from Boston, but she had no plans to leave any of the major highways so she figured she should keep handy a supply of provisions. As she pulled onto the Massachusetts Turnpike headed west bound, she shoved half a Snickers bar into her mouth and chewed slowly, thoughtfully. The city got smaller behind her as she weaved in and out of traffic without bothering to signal. It was early fall and the air was chilled, but Alex refused to put up the hood of her sports car unless it was either raining or snowing. Her cell phone buzzed in the passenger seat. Without a glance, she knew it was Carl, wondering why she hadn't shown up to work that day. She smirked. She hadn't bothered to tell him she was moving. She could just imagine what he'd say. Leaving Boston for New Jersey? He wouldn't understand. She barely understood it herself. About a week earlier, Greg Levinson, the trustee managing the assets of her trust fund, had forwarded a letter from her benefactor. Well, it couldn't really be called a letter exactly. It was a scrap of paper and "40.0917° N, 74.0450° W" was all that was written on it. It didn't take her long to figure out that they were coordinates to a geographic location. A quick Google search brought up a town in New Jersey she had never heard of. Point Pleasant. It sounded nice enough.

If Alex had had people in her life to care about, one of them might have thought it strange that she would divine in such a vague message a command to pack up her life and leave. They would be right. But Alex was more pragmatic. For one thing, as long as her mysterious benefactor was going to keep increasing her bank balance exponentially, she was going to keep right on doing what she could to make him happy. For another, and this part she couldn't quite articulate well, but she actually _trusted_ this person, whoever he was. Or she. After all, he had saved her life.

It wasn't long after her eighteenth birthday. Alex's jaw had dropped when she saw the first print out detailing the contents of her newly-created bank account. She looked guiltily over her shoulder as if she were stealing and the police were just around the corner waiting to pounce. But it was real. And it was all hers. At first, she didn't think to question it. Like most good things that had happened to her in her life, she felt it would disappear as quickly as it had arrived. Her first stop was the Cambridgeside Galleria Mall where she bought herself a computer and half a dozen pairs of sneakers. She checked into the Marriott Hotel that night and resolved that first up on the next day's agenda would be to find herself an apartment. Not too many landlords were interested in renting places to unemployed eighteen-year-old girls, but once she started lying about her age and offering the first couple months' rent in cash, the offers started pouring in. She saw a few places in the nicer areas of Beacon Hill and the South End, but ended up choosing a first-floor two-bedroom in Southie. She had spent much of her life in the mostly-Irish neighborhood and it was the closest thing she knew to home.

Once she moved in, she set herself to work transforming the apartment into a home. She didn't have much an eye for interior design but she hung a few prints here and there on the walls and even bought herself a fancy new bedspread. Once the place no longer looked like a barren box, she went immediately to the Shaw's grocery store and filled her fridge and pantry with all kinds of decadent foods she'd never had occasion to try before, including a papaya that utterly perplexed her.

But once Alex was finished setting up house, she was amazed by how bored she quickly got. She found herself wandering the streets of Boston every day exploring the shops and neighborhoods with a keen eye. One day she wandered by Carl's Auto Shop and peered inside wistfully. Her breath caught as she noticed a neglected 1967 Mustang with chipping paint sitting up on cinder blocks at the back of the garage. She had to have it. She loved cars. When she was about six years old, she lived with a family in Somerville. She had an older foster brother named Damien. Damien was about fifteen years old and Alex liked him. He would let her sit and watch while he fixed up the old cars that their foster father would drag home from the landfill. Most of the time Damien couldn't get the parts he needed to make the car run again, but fixing up what he could gave him something to fill his hours and by extension Alex's hours as well. Damien would pretend to drive the car and Alex would sit in his lap and interlace her tiny pale fingers around his strong ebony ones as he gripped the wheel and pretended to drive them across the country.

"Look out at the desert, Alex!" Damien would say as he pointed out through the windshield which faced the street and a row of gray clapboard houses. "We're headed to Vegas!"

At the time Alex had no idea what or where Las Vegas was, but Damien had made it sound like a magical place.

"That's where my mom is," he said again and again. "She's going to come get me and bring me out there. It's really warm out there. It never snows in Vegas!"

Even at six years old, Alex understood the allure of a world without cold.

She took a breath as she stood outside Carl's and forced herself to go in. He hired her on the spot. She was astonished that it was so easy. It didn't dawn on her until much later that Carl took one look at the lanky kid before him with mussed up hair and dirty jeans and old Red Sox shirt and assumed she was a boy. It also didn't dawn on her to question his offered hourly rate, which was far below minimum wage. But the money didn't matter to her. She just needed something to do with her hands all day.

And that became her life. She would work all day with Carl and then put in a few hours of work into the Mustang, which Carl said she could have, provided she paid for all the parts herself and worked on the car outside of work hours. Every night she'd arrive at home tired, dirty, and completely content.

She continued like this for months before the restlessness came.

Alex found herself drawn at night to the clubs on Lansdowne and Newbury Streets. At first, she was turned away at the doors by pretentious-looking bouncers who sneered at her shabby appearance. But after a few visits to some downtown boutiques, Alex quickly made herself a regular at the hottest spots. She frequently ordered a table and bottle service and invited the most gorgeous girls to drink with her. Before long, Alex was a mainstay at the VIP tables of the best clubs in Boston.

One Friday night, Alex sat at her regular table at Rumor clutching an expensive bottle of champagne with one hand and a buxom blonde with the other. As Alex leaned in to whisper something into her ear, a small posse of angry-looking frat boys approached her table.

"Hey, buddy," said one. He had slicked black hair and wore a white button-down collared shirt with a gold chain and tufts of black chest hair poking out of his shirt. "Why don't you share the action?"

Alex reluctantly dragged her gaze from the beauty at her side and appraised the men before her with cool disdain. "Why don't you three share a shower? You reek of Drakkar."

The girl next to Alex laughed boisterously and Alex pulled her close and planted a soft kiss on her right cheek bone. Suddenly, Alex was jerked backward. Before she realized what was happening, she was being pulled out of the club past oblivious and drunken revelers.

"What's your fucking problem, man?" said gold-chain guy as his burly buddies looked on with their huge arms crossed over their equally huge chests.

For a moment, Alex considered telling them that she was not, in fact, a man. She felt reasonably sure that if they knew she was actually a woman, they would back off. But then again, she had made that mistake once before.

"Oh shit," she muttered under her breath. She was surrounded.

Suddenly, she looked down and saw a bright yellow light bursting through the fabric of her jacket. She quickly reached into the inside pocket and withdrew the source: the talisman. She had taken to keeping it close, for fear of losing it. Now, as she stared, transfixed, at the halogen lights beaming off the stick, time itself seemed to slow down. They advanced on her in slow motion. She snapped her head to attention and narrowed her eyes at her attackers. She closed her eyes and felt a searing heat emanating from her forehead. A voice, soft as a gentle breeze whispered to her. She gasped as the words came to her, words she had never known, yet felt as familiar to her as a favorite childhood nursery rhyme.

"Uranus power!"

For an instant, the world went black. But Alex wasn't afraid. A fiery curtain of solar flares shot up all around her, enveloping her, but she felt no pain. She felt nothing, but the surging power filling her body. When it was over, she was transformed.

The men stopped in their tracks and gaped at her.

"What the—?" said one of them, struggling to understand what he had just seen.

"I think I had too many G&Ts…" muttered another.

Alex grinned as she felt a jolt of heat spread from the center of her chest and travel down her right arm until it burst forth out of her fingertips in a bright white laser of energy. She marveled as she manipulated the beam with her hand. As she did so, it grew larger and more rounded until she held a great, levitating ball of molten energy between the palms of her hands. She stared at the ball which sent out little electric shocks as it turned revolutions in the air between her hands.

The men slowly began to back away. Alex smirked at them. But then her smile faded as she realized the energy ball she was holding was growing more and more unstable the longer she held it. Her fingers started to burn. The ball sent out a shock that traveled into a nearby streetlamp, sending it topping over. Alex started to panic and the ball started to spin faster.

"Get back!" she screamed, and she reached behind her and threw the ball away from her as hard as she could. Her aim was terrible. It charged forward sending pulses of energy outward as it ripped into the street sending chunks of pavement flying everywhere. Alex shielded her eyes from the brilliant light. After what seemed like hours, the energy ball dissipated leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. A fire hydrant had been ripped from the sidewalk and was sending a geyser of water into the sky. Several vehicles were ripped in half. A corner of a large office building was ripped out and several small fires plagued the street.

Alex frantically searched the streets for any people who might have been injured but was relieved to find none. Even the three men who had dragged her into the street appeared relatively unscathed. They lay facedown with their hands covering their heads. It dawned on Alex that if she lingered, she would have a lot of explaining to do, so she broke into a run and didn't stop until she burst into her apartment, out of breath, red faced and panting.

As Alex reached the border and crossed into Connecticut, she thought about that night as the night where everything in her life changed forever. She brought her hand to her breast pocket and patted the talisman inside.


End file.
